They'll Never Know
by scarletphlame
Summary: "It hurts, looking at him like this-no, not looking, /seeing/. He's glad it does. It makes everything real." There's been something off about Sherlock for a long while, and John hasn't noticed it. Or maybe he doesn't want to notice it? Takes place after His Last Vow.
1. Chapter 1

They'll Never Know

Summary: There's been something off about Sherlock for a long while, and John hasn't noticed it. Or maybe he doesn't want to notice it?

AN: Inspired by my lovely friend from summer school, who did a cover of this song and ultimately inspired me to write this. But they do know my fan fiction account, so… it'd be kinda awkward if they read this. (gulp)

_xoxoxoxox_

To be fair, if John missed it, then Sherlock had likely done well at hiding it.

And Sherlock Holmes is a master at hide-and-seek, and he has been, ever since he was a kid. He's always, always won, every single time, especially when there was nobody looking for him, and most of the time, as it happened, there wasn't.

Of course, Sherlock being Sherlock, he'd brag about it, his powers of concealing himself, and while Daddy smiled and Mummy fiddled with the salad with the point of her fork, it always drove Mycroft up the wall, his bragging. So much that sometimes Mycroft went out to look for him, but he never found Sherlock because he knew the best hiding places in the world, so too bad, Mycroft, too bad for you.

In fact, Sherlock Holmes still has hiding places and the most recent one he went to was in Leinster Gardens, and, yes, Mary did find him but it was practically cheating and it doesn't count, even if Mary does. Count.

And John still has no bloody clue why Sherlock's just run off in the middle of a murder case.

There's a thing, about John and Sherlock, and, yes, there are many things about them but this one is different, and that thing just happens to be trust. Sherlock doesn't trust many people in the world, but he trusts John and that might be because he's so loyal.

Yes, John, you win. He trusts you. He trusts you with his body and his head and even his heart and his mind which is a very incredible thing because he probably will never trust anyone else in the world with his mind, ever. Yes, that's right, John Watson is the person Sherlock Holmes trusts the most in the world.

So why the hell doesn't he trust him at all?

Whatever _it_ is, it drives Sherlock away from John for nearly two hours, two hours full of endless thoughts and concerns and dread, and all of these thoughts finally come to a screeching halt when Sherlock Holmes walks through that door, large as life, hair damp and matted with raindrops still clinging to his coat. And of course John doesn't waste any time, doesn't bother to stand up from his armchair (that is placed where it should be, blocking the view to the kitchen). Instead, he calls out to the consulting detective, almost lazily, in a question.

"Have fun, did we?"

Sherlock stands for a while, breathing ragged, and John waits for a response, drumming his fingers against the armrest on his chair. There's a rattling noise from rain hitting the window outside, and the sound of labored breathing gradually evening out, and then the very distinctive sound of Sherlock making a run for his bedroom. John's upon him in a second, firmly pulling the detective into a chair.

"No, none of that, Sherlock. You're going to sit down and tell me why the hell you ran out on Lestrade in the middle of a murder scene."

Sherlock does not meet his gaze, unsurprisingly. Without preamble, he goes on to hand over to John the most obvious answer possible. "It was boring."

"Boring!" John laughs, turning in a full circle, staring up at the ceiling as if it'll reveal the answers he cannot find, not in Sherlock. He does not bother to sit down. Perhaps it is because he has to be above Sherlock at this moment. Perhaps it's because he wants to be above Sherlock at this moment. Whatever it is, he does nothing to think about it.

Silence breezes by between them. It's almost painful to hear. John folds his arms across his chest and puffs out a sigh. "You gonna tell me how you solved it, then?"

"No."

"What the hell… Sherlock, you can't just walk out 'cause you've solved it and can't be bothered to explain it to us! I mean, we aren't all–"

"I didn't–I didn't solve it," Sherlock stutters, finally meeting John's glare with a frown of his own. John's arms drop to his side in frustration. "I got bored," Sherlock says, simply.

"It was a murder case," John replies, voice hoarse. Now, he does take a seat. Good for him! Good for Sherlock. Bad for them both. "Now those are boring too?" His voice is stained with incredulity and disbelief and some other emotion that Sherlock cannot quite place his finger on.

"Not boring, then, fine, whatever." Sherlock scrubs his face with his hands. "I don't care."

"Well, I do," John snaps. "For God's sake, Sherlock, a serial killer, seven victims, this should have you dancing!"

"What does it matter to you whether I'm bored or not?" Sherlock grinds out. His teeth are gritted tightly together, like he's thinking hard. Or maybe he's remembering.

John's face falls. "Because you're my best friend and... I worry about you."

"You shouldn't."

"Sorry?" Sherlock pretends to ignore him, so John goes on. "And because you're a right pain in the arse when haven't got a case." Sherlock grumbles something but John doesn't catch it, so instead he just sighs and moves towards the detective. "When was the last time you slept?"

"Don't remember."

"Right." He points towards the hall. "Go sleep. You'll feel better in the morning, trust me. Go on." He motions wildly towards the hall, as if directing traffic or urging a pet to move. Sherlock grumbles again but complies.

John stops him, strangely, hand extended. "Coat?" he asks.

"I'm keeping it on," Sherlock replies in his best you're-stupid-and-the-east-wind-is-coming-to-get-you voice.

"No, you're not," John says simply. "It's practically soaked and I don't want you catching pneumonia." If anything, Sherlock's brows furrow harder.

"John, you and I both know that pneumonia is a lung infection contracted via-"

"Yeah, yeah, fine, whatever, just hand it over," John orders, tone clipped. Sherlock makes no move to do so; instead, he wraps it even tighter around his torso. The look on his face is best described as... affronted. It's strange, it's an emotion that doesn't fit right, not in this particular moment, and John doesn't like it, not one bit. It makes him uncomfortable.

Oh, Sherlock, don't ever make a soldier uncomfortable, it isn't the smartest thing ever to do. I'm not particularly intelligent and even I know that.

Sherlock just sighs, John crosses his arms. His hand is still mentally outstretched, waiting for Sherlock to remove his coat and hand it over. He still does not, which concerns John because the detective has been acting very strangely this night and he's not quite sure why.

"No."

"Sherlock–"

"It bothers you. Why does it bother you?" Sherlock speaks all at once, eyes nervous as he studies John. He reeks of disappointment, for some inexplicable reason that John cannot define.

"I just don't want you catching a cold," John says lamely. "And I don't know why you're acting all..." He gestures with his hand in a motion that he hopes conveys the word 'weird'. Sherlock does not seem to understand this–ha, that's funny, put it on a pin–so John finishes aloud, "weird."

Sherlock turns. "I'm not acting 'weird', John." The doctor can nearly _hear_ the quotation marks in that one.

And John's had enough of it, enough of this, so he crosses his arms and directly asks the man, "What's wrong, Sherlock?" It almost comes out wrong, him sounding more like a psychiatrist than a concerned friend, which obviously was never his intention but there's really no way to ask someone that sort of question without sounding like you're psychoanalyzing them, so whatever, it doesn't matter much anyway.

"Nothing. Good night." Sherlock pivots and makes for the door, but once again John blocks his path.

"What's wrong?" John repeats his question, searching the detective's eyes for an answer furiously. He sees a lot of things looking at Sherlock like that. Heterochromia. Messy, wet hair. Red, puffy eyes, like he's been crying. Harsh breathing pattern, as if it's more of a task than a necessity–to breathe. Flickering eyelids-he actually is tired. White knuckles–he's gripping his coat rather hard.

All of these things are things John has seen but never really noticed, but he is certainly noticing them now and by God when the hell did they get there and how long has he been missing them for and_ what the hell_ is wrong with Sherlock?

And as if it couldn't get worse, which it could, it could get so, so much more worse (but don't tell them I said that, because it's a spoiler and a big one, so you might want to delete that one from your hard drive) John asks him the worst possible thing he could ever ask.

"Are you okay?"

And then Sherlock gives him the worst possible answer he could possibly give; the truth.

"No."


	2. Chapter 2

_John should've deleted it._

_xoxoxoxox_

"Internet history," says Sherlock.

Yes, that's the thing about the web, isn't it? Nothing's ever really deleted. People can track you, see what you're watching, typing, reading. It would only take the press of a few keys (command, Y) to see that you're reading this. Would it embarrass you if people knew what you read? It might embarrass me, but I delete my history and I'm also dead so who cares, right?

Well, that's John's first mistake, at least. Internet history.

"Pardon?" John asks, like he doesn't know what Sherlock's talking about when secretly he does, although it isn't exactly a secret because Sherlock knows about it. Is a secret a secret if it isn't secret to everyone?

"Internet history, John, always delete it." The curly-haired detective moves from the kitchen to the sitting room in one stride, taking a sip from his cuppa as he does. "You were trying to figure me out, weren't you? 'Security blankets, anxiety, PTSD'. I'm surprised you wouldn't know yourself, being a doctor and all."

John just scratches the back of his neck and sighs. He doesn't bother to ask how Sherlock found the time to check his laptop or if it's true, what he thinks, because he has much more important questions, questions that matter, and things to say that he couldn't see himself saying two years ago.

"We never talked about what happened while you were away, Sherlock."

And, no, they hadn't. Don't get me wrong, it isn't as if they hadn't cared at the time, it's just that they didn't need to care. Sherlock Holmes and Doctor John Watson are like underground trains running parallel to one another, in that respect. No matter which direction they choose, no matter how far apart they go, they will always find each other again and can always pick up and start up where they last left off.

I take no hesitation in proudly stating that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson could start a conversation at two in the morning, and travel 'round the world for a year, then pop back to 221B and end it there, cold tea and biscuits. They're both moving parts wired into the same machine. Me? I don't matter here, hardly, and if we had met in real life I still would't matter to you so we'll leave it at that.

This isn't a puzzle, my friend. This isn't a story or a movie or a television show where you sit down with popcorn and Sour Patch Kids and the heroes have a happy ending and ride a blue box into the sunset; it's life, and life's never easy, and it certainly hasn't been easy for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, so maybe death would suit them better. It certainly suits me better.

Despite what many people might claim, John and Sherlock are not a couple. They aren't anyone, exactly. But when they're together, they become someone, and isn't that the point of fame; to not be nobody?

"No, we didn't, John." Sherlock's gaze is steel. "I expect you want to now?"

"Why?" John's tone is dreadfully flat, despite the lingering note of inquisition that hangs at the last second.

"Why what?" It's a question that Sherlock knows the answer to, and John has no idea why he'd ask a question he knew the answer to. Is it a challenge? Is he asking John if he's prepared to ride murky waters to find the truth?

Joh doesn't know the answer to that question either.

John looks at the floor, steeling himself, then back up at Sherlock. He meets his almost-challenging gaze head-on. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"About what I did during those years?"

"Yes."

"You didn't ask.

That's unfair. "Doesn't mean I didn't deserve to know." John eyes Sherlock patiently. The man says nothing, so John just sighs and rubs his temple with his knuckles. "Fine, just answer me this. Were you even planning on coming back?"

"No."

"Why not?" He falls into his chair and crosses one leg over the other.

Sherlock drums his fingers against the palm of his other hand. "John," he begins, but closes his mouth abruptly, possibly because he's found something better to say. (And this is because what Sherlock was about to say just might possibly break John's heart.)

I'm no doctor, but I know that a broken heart is harder to fix than anything else. Don't break his heart, Sherlock. It's sad because he won't forgive you. Or maybe he will. Maybe that's why it's sad.

So instead Sherlock pauses, clears his throat, then starts again. "I didn't think you'd miss me." John chews on his lower lip, and Sherlock goes on, hating the sound of silence in the room more than anything. "I came back because _I_ missed _you_."

"Why?"

"Why?" Sherlock blinks, surprised. "Because, John Watson, you're the best friend and man I know and quite possibly the only person in the world who loves me. And because I once promised you that I would never let you down and I had to keep that promise, even if I didn't know I'd made it at the time."

There's something warm and wet on John's cheek, and he realizes he's crying all of a sudden. Just a little bit. Could be from dust. Could be a twig. Could be a tree. Could be a house. Could it be love? John ignores that question. It's one he's asked himself so very many times. There's nothing to say, really, so he just laughs uncomfortably, which only seems to confuse Holmes more.

"I didn't mean why am I important to you, you sod, I meant why wouldn't you think I missed you?" John doesn't move to wipe away the tears. There's nothing within arm's reach and he doesn't want to get up. He seems glued to the spot somehow. "You were there, you saw me at the funeral and at your grave."

Sherlock shifts in his chair, winces. "Well, at that point I had no way of knowing–"

"No way of knowing–Sherlock, I _shot_ a man for you!" Now it's John's turn to wince. He lowers his voice. "On the first–well, second day I knew you, nonetheless! What about me risking my life for you at the swimming pool?"

The younger man's shoulders twitch. "Well, you worked in the army; soldiers risk their lives everyday for strangers. Besides–" Sherlock fidgets, "I provided half the rent, took you out on cases with me, and… you're a kind man. I assumed you'd be upset at my death, but, then, you're fascinated solely with my intellect, so I assumed once you believed it was a lie–"

"Hang on, Sherlock. You do realize that I'm not just around you because…" It almost sounds stupid, what he's about to say next, "you impress me?"

"Yes, well, I know that now," Sherlock waves dismissively, "but I was otherwise amazed at the fact that you seemed to retain complete faith in me despite the fact that–"

"Nobody else did… Jesus, Sherlock." John pinches the bridge of his nose. A thought occurs to him, then; they're already discussing the subject and it isn't as if Sherlock opens up to I'm very often… "What about Lestrade?"

"Needs my help from time to time on a case, obviously I'm very valuable to his work–"

"He did risk his job calling maximum backup to Baker Street that time about the Best Man speech–"

"Well, obviously I didn't think he'd do that then," Sherlock huffs.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"She had you, and I knew she'd get over it eventually."

_Had_ you. Something in John's gut clenches tightly at that, and he squeezes his eyes shut. She hadn't had John by her side. She'd been alone. He'd run from her. Did that make them any different? Running from hardship? "She was heartbroken, Sherlock."

"Well, I just…" his voice trails off as he realizes what John's doing.

Clever you, John, tricking him into talking. You've gotten smart, to fool Sherlock Holmes like that. Or perhaps not. Perhaps you haven't tricked him. Perhaps he secretly _wants_ to talk about it. Is a secret a secret if you don't know it exists?

Sherlock clears his throat. "There were many times, John, when I was almost in touch–an email or a letter that had to be deleted or burned moments after completion, but… Well, I couldn't think of how you'd react, so…"

John's head shakes in incredulity. His fingers twitch, curl into fists, and he studies Sherlock carefully, takes in the blue–green–gold of his eyes, sharp cheekbones, and those hands _oh tho__se hands_– "Since we're talking about it now, you might as well tell me _why_ exactly you decided to fake your death?"

Sherlock scratches the back of his neck. "Moriarty evidently had snipers trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade," he deadpans, as if discussing the topic of a casual murder rather than… "and there was still his web to take care of, thought I might as well finish the job at the same time."

John shifts, peeling the back of his shirt off his skin. He's rather uncomfortable speaking to Sherlock about the past, although he isn't exactly sure why. "Why not come to me and ask for my help?"

"You're surrounded by people, John, people who'd miss you. People who'd worry about you. People who deserve you. I don't."

"Didn't," John corrects him. "You didn't think you did, but you know now." He doesn't want to think about the fact that Sherlock assumed he hadn't deserved him. Old Sherlock, he could live with that. This Sherlock, his Sherlock, the one in the room right now? Never. "Sherlock, you know you do deserve me?" he rattles when Sherlock gives him no response. It's ridiculous, absolutely _preposterous_ that he has to explain to his best friend that he loves him. He wants him to be happy. He wants him to be okay.

Well, I wanted a pony and a mansion with a jacuzzi and a Ferrari and to not be dead, so too bad John Watson; we cannot have all the things we want.

"Didn't." Sherlock directs a curt nod towards him, his gaze drifting. He folds his hands under his chin, as if he's contemplating a puzzle.

"Sherlock, has anyone ever told you that you're a complete and utter idiot?" John blurts out, suddenly.

Yes, they have, John. Of course they have. Of course they are. Of course they will. And you expect them to accept him? The world will never accept Sherlock Holmes. You may. Molly Hooper may. Lestrade may. Mrs. Hudson and Mary and Mycroft may. Even Anderson and Sally may, sometimes. But the world cannot accept Sherlock Holmes for who he is, and there's a good reason for that, a good reason why Sherlock Holmes can never be happy.

Because he doesn't think he can.

A thought has the potential to mean many things. This world is not concrete; it's made up of whispers and sayings and truths and lies and dares and blood, so go ahead and lie to it and the world will grant your wish.

_Wish granted, Sherlock Holmes, wish granted._

Sherlock smiles softly and speaks to John in a matter-of-fact tone.

"They never seem to stop."


	3. Chapter 3

_So, John visited me today._

_xoxoxoxox_

Sherlock doesn't want to take the case.

It's the end of the world. Grab your coat, John, it's your birthday. Pick up Sherlock's Eschenbach, he'll need his magnifying lens for this one. Wait for meteors to start raining from the sky; they're coming any second now, I guarantee it.

It's a very unusual day for the both of them.

"Look, Sherlock, I don't have time for this; we need you here. This guy's killed before, all right? Well, he'll do it again, unless you help us catch him!" Lestrade's half fuming, half shocked. Don't blame him. John hasn't pieced together why Sherlock is refusing to take this case. I know why. I may be the only one who knows why.

I _can_ tell when he's fibbing.

"Can't help, sorry." Sherlock folds his hands underneath chin and blows out air, eyes squeezed shut, lips pursed together. He appears to be lost in thought. Could it be that he's lost in memories? That's the worst place to get lost. Especially if they aren't good memories.

Good luck deleting those, Sherlock Holmes.

"Bye," Sherlock adds.

John just sighs and adjusts the bottom of his jacket, moving towards the door. "I'll see you out, then." He notices that Lestrade turns and glances at Sherlock one last time, before shaking his head and following him out down the stairs.

"What's up with him, then?" Lestrade folds his arms over his chest, eyeing the street for a cab to hail. John chews on his lower lip.

"I don't know, to be honest," John sighs. "But I think it has something to do with the years he was away."

"Do you reckon he thinks this guy's part of Moriarty's web?"

John blinks. "Could be." He considers telling Lestrade about their conversation the other night, but decides against it. Instead, he says, "I don't think it's a good idea for him to take this case, but..." he pauses, glances towards the door, then back at Lestrade, "if you need any help..."

"Do you mind?"

"Not at all, no." John glances at the flat window; Sherlock isn't watching them, that's good. "There's been another victim."

"Yeah. Mind taking a look at it?"

John shakes his head. "Not at all, no."

Oh, John, that's a big mistake. Don't sneak off on Sherlock. Well–don't shoot him either, that isn't exactly smart. I'm not always that smart. You are, 'though. That's why I'm all right with all of it. (I don't always tell the truth.)

Lestrade's phone chimes, startling the both of them. The detective sends John an apologetic look and holds the phone up. "I better get this." John just about turns to leave, but Lestrade's next words hit him like a bullet. "Keep an eye on him, will you? He's not had an easy time."

John turns to ask what he means by that, but Lestrade is retreating, a plume of his trench coat brushing across the air.

He makes a visit, later.

_xoxoxoxox_

"Mary," he says, placing his hand upon my gravestone.

_xoxoxoxox_

John returns to the flat about an hour later, feeling quite sick and numb all over. Granted, it isn't the first time he's felt this way, and maybe not the last. That's awful, John. Not knowing what you become. Or maybe it's worse, knowing what you are. Knowing who you will be and who you will always be.

Have you ever felt sick? _Really_ sick? Sick enough to _be_ sick, when in reality there's nothing medically wrong with you? Like the world's spinning around you, thousands of miles per hour, and you can _feel_ it, feel it all, when the drop of a pin sounds like the crash of a tidal wave, and–

John freezes.

It's almost as if he knows what he's going to walk in upon before he walks in on it. Maybe it's the metallic tang in the air, hungry, desperate, or the frankly alarming smell wafting from upstairs. Nonetheless, it hits him like a bullet, the scent and the taste and he's left standing quite still and very small, staring at the stoned-out man lying on the couch, sleeve pulled up and eyes closed, twitching occasionally as if he's dreaming.

"Sherlock," John says, like he's in a trance.

The man does not respond.

"Sherlock," John snaps. "Sherlock, Sherlock, _Sherlock_..." Over, and over, and over, like a spell, maybe like his flatmate's name is magic, like it's going to solve everything that needs to be solved and has ever needed to be solved and everything that is wrong with them, with this, with everything, _everyone_.

John instinctively reaches for his phone. Don't take the easy way out, John. Don't call Mycroft. Then Sherlock Holmes won't tell you anything.

"Sherlock!" He gives the man a hard shake, fighting to keep his emotions at bay. He's never really been one for subtlety.

The detective cracks open an eyelid. "Yes, John?"

"What. The hell is this." It's not even a question. He gestures his hands towards the packet lying on the table.

"Oh. That." Sherlock sounds bored.

Why, it's so strange, strange that John would even _catch_ Sherlock. He doesn't even live in the flat anymore, and, yet, he can't help but think that Sherlock would've timed this better.

_It's almost as if he was waiting for me out here, waiting for me to come and stop him._

John blinks.

Silly John. Silly, silly, _silly_ John.

John shudders out a breath. "All right, Sherlock. From the beginning. You're going to tell me exactly what you did from the start."

"That's–"

"No arguing. Recap the day. Now."

"...Lestrade came to bother me with a case."

"Which you turned down."

"Which I turned down." There's a slight, awkward pause after this. "You went to visit Mary's grave; I came back to the flat and snorted cocaine. Happy?"

John shivers. "Why?"

"Why what? I just conveyed to you the entire timeline of my day, which you were so eager to expose. Might I remind you that–"

"Stop. Stop that." John blinks. God, his head hurts. It does, it really does. Perhaps I should get him some aspirin. Would you like me to do that for you, John? "Stop talking like-like you're a bloody _dictionary_. _Speak_ to me."

"I believe I was," Sherlock deadpans.

Something hits John then, so deep, so visceral, it makes him want to squirm. "Fine, then. But I think you were waiting for me to come and find you. Is that it, Sherlock? It must be, because I don't know. Okay? I don't. Know."

"...never will..." Sherlock is saying.

John crouches down next to Sherlock. The other man turns over on the couch so that John is facing his back. "Sherlock." He places a hand on the other man's shoulder, eliciting an involuntary shudder from the detective. John draws his hand backwards. "Tell me."

There's a loud swallow, then the sound of fabric rustling. Oh. Sherlock is turning over.

He looks pained, like he's just been shot, when he replies, "Okay."

* * *

AN: Authoress is exhausted and supposed to be studying for her Japanese, World Civilization, and Chemistry test tomorrow and now she's apparently talking in third person because she has not had a very good day.

Send me some lovely reviews?


	4. Chapter 4

_"That's what people do."_

_xoxoxoxox_

_Thunk_

_Thunk _

_Thunk_

To be completely honest with you, I have never recognized the sound of a clock "ticking" as a tick, tock. When one is distracted or off-task enough to notice the sound of a clock, each second seems to slam home with a resounding smash, each moment longer than the previous. The tick of a clock is not so much a tick as it is, rather, a gunshot.

John glances at the clock, then back to Sherlock. The detective is pacing across the floor, hands tucked neatly at the small of his back, coming up every so often to tap himself on the forehead, hard, as if he's urging himself to think. It's not as if it's a light tap, either. Every time he raises his hands, John flinches. The detective doesn't seem to notice his discomfort, just continues his pacing and tapping.

This bothers John. Good. It would have bothered me too, and that's a sign of positively ordinary behavior; it's a good think to know I haven't completely lost my mind in death.

The cup handle moves about in John's fingers with a life of its own. "Sherlock–"

"Thinking."

John inhales sharply, then begins again. "Sherlock." It's amazing, the countless amount of ways one is able to use a single word. "Why are you..." he gestures wildly at the air with his free hand. Sherlock gives him a blank look. "You're practically beating yourself up."

"Helps me to think," Sherlock answers rapidly, tossing the question over his shoulder as if it's a mere distraction. John grows persistent.

"You didn't need to before," John tells him, fingering the lip of the mug distractedly. Before what, John? Before the Fall? Before my death? You blame Sherlock for it. I know you do. I'd blame him too, if I were alive. Apparently death leaves no breathing space for anger or resentment.

He's been through a tough time. You shouldn't blame him. Then again, you don't always make the best decisions ever. That's why you needed me.

"Well, now I do," Sherlock hisses.

Silence falls between them for a few more moments, then Sherlock abruptly shouts, "This damn CASE!" His feet hit the floor with an inordinate bang.

The mug shatters on the floor and John's positive he's rocketed several feet out of his skin. There's only one time someone's been able to startle him that, much, and… well, that was Moriarty. At the pool.

_"That's what people DO…"_

"Sherlock!" John shouts.

"John!" Sherlock roars back.

Both are breathing heavily now, John's eyes watering around the edges. Isn't that unnecessary? He doesn't even understand why he's on the verge of tears. Does crying mean sadness if you don't know what you're crying about?

It's somewhat ridiculous, by this point.

Sherlock's bedroom door shuts with a loud crash, the walls shuddering. It's too late to speak to Sherlock about it now, John figures.

Then again, maybe it's been too late for John to speak to Sherlock since he married me.

* * *

"I hate this," John tells Lestrade. He stares into the bottom of his glass. The liquid seems to expand every time he stares at it, deeper, deeper, heavier, darker–

"Hate what?"

"This case." He gestures with his hands in a movement he can only define as 'this goddamn case'. "I hate what it's doing to me." It really translates as, "I hate what it's doing to Sherlock."

Lestrade shakes his head. "I don't understand why it's got the both of you worked up so much. This is the first case-hell, the first time I've seen him act this way about a murder."

"Saying this is the first time you've seen me in this manner implies that you have seen me behave this way before, when in fact, you have not. Hello, John."

John stirred slightly, leaning his head to stare at the curly-haired man sitting on the counter beside him. "How'd you–"

"I saw you getting into a cab. We had a fight. It seems only logical you'd end up here."

"You're getting blurry," John warns him.

"I assure you that I am not. Hello, Lestrade."

"Crikey," Lestrade mutters.

"Scotch, straight," Sherlock tells the bartender, then flips out his phone, fingers dancing across the keyboard with ease.

"You're having a drink?" Lestrade asks him, incredulity creeping into his voice.

"Obviously. I'm not constrained to avoiding all forms of dull entertainment as I'm sure John knows." He sniffs at the air, then turns his attention back to his smartphone.

John shifts in his chair, resting his head in his right hand. He's been drinking too much. That's not good, John. You shouldn't do that. Sherlock isn't dead anymore, after all, so there's really no use for it. Besides, aren't you scared you'll end up like your sister?

He takes a sip of the brownish liquid, then places the glass on the table. "I'm not really in the mood to talk right now," John half-slurs, half-growls, half-whispers.

"I refuse to leave."

John scrubs his face with his hands.

"Why?"

Sherlock does not answer him with an answer. He answers him with a test. "I'm sorry to disenchant you, John, but I'm not exactly a model best friend."

"No, but you still are."

"I am still what?"

"My best friend."

There's a stunned silence for a minute or so, and John finally gains the courage to stare at Sherlock's blank expression. Lestrade seems to be half-gawking too, but only out of the corner of his eye.

"I'll see you in the morning," Sherlock tells John, downing his glass then exiting promptly.

"Leave it to Sherlock to ruin a perfectly good evening," is something along the lines of what Lestrade mumbles, although John is too busy thinking to notice.

* * *

Violin music blares throughout the flat for the rest of the entire evening, and John enters the sitting room to find Sherlock plucking the strings in the early morning. The noise is mournful, sad, as though he's playing the notes straight from his heart. It makes John's head ache more than it should.

"Tea?"

Sherlock opts to ignore him, studying his violin as if it's the last thing he's got left. Maybe it is. Maybe nobody knows it yet.

John starts the kettle up and glances back at the man lying on the couch.

"You called Mycroft," Sherlock mutters. The words sting, jab at John's heart. He doesn't know why. The words are the truth, after all. They make sense. They are logical. They are pure and true. It's just the way that Sherlock says it, that gets him. Like he's listing off another betrayal. It isn't so much the feeling behind the words; the statement completely lacks any traces of rancor or sadness. It is robotic, monotone at best. He says it so oddly, like he's purposefully distancing himself from his emotions, as if they are little more than alien.

"Yes, I did." John's tone is dull, flat. "I had to. Because you weren't telling me anything, you git."

Sherlock flinches at the last remark. Not outwardly. He'd never let his body betray him in such a way. But John can almost feel the flinch reverberating throughout the flat like ripples in water–God, it's heinously loud–and then there is nothing at all. "I have told you all you require to know," Sherlock simply rattles off.

Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and robot.

_"That's what people do…"_

That's what people do. They look but don't see. They'll never see, Sherlock. Never. They'll never know what it is you're thinking.

"Let me help you." John moves to stand beside Sherlock. It brings him closer to the man. "But you need to tell me why you're back on the drugs, Sherlock. You need–"

"I do not require anything."

In one swift movement, the detective jumps towards his bedroom. John's only aware he has moved when the door slams with a resounding bang that could crack the air.

"Shit!" he curses, then, because there is simply nothing better for him to do, John kicks the wall.

Poor John.

Poor wall.

Fingers clumsily grasping at the door handle, he pushes outside of 221B and into the sunlight. His face burns. How dare the rest of the world lie in opulent unawareness while…

His train of thought crumbles as he is finally aware of the dark black car humming beside him on the road.

Don't get into the car, John.

_Don't._

John gets into the car.

* * *

AN: Your opinion on Johnlock is...? Just to see what sort of audience I've got.

R&R! Or, you know, not. But then the children might cry. And by 'children' I obviously mean myself.


	5. Chapter 5

_Something old, something new, something lost, hidden from you…_

_xoxoxoxox_

The thing about Sherlock is that he is very, very lonely.

It's not as if this is necessarily a _bad_ thing. It doesn't make him a bad person. Well, it doesn't really make anyone a bad person, being lonely. It just makes you more vulnerable, more hurt.

It's hard to hide being hurt.

Well, _why_ is Sherlock lonely? I'd have thought that obvious. He has no one.

He has John? He hasn't, 'though, has he, when _I_ am the one who has John. That saddens me. Truly. That I still have John when I have been gone for so many months. Perhaps that is the worst thing about this. John Watson has never _belonged_ to anyone. He is not a possession. He is loyal, and he will follow you, and, most of all, he will love you. He loved me. He loved Sherlock. But then I died. Now he loves neither of us. Nothing is more simple yet complicated.

"Hello, John," Anthea says. John peers over to get a better look at her. Maybe she is the reason he found Mycroft so far from intimidating to begin with. After all, he does not know many serial killers with personal assistants that play _Angry Birds_ during a kidnapping.

"Hello, Anthea," John greets. She meets him with a meek smile.

"Oh, it's Esme now," she tells him.

"Right. Of course." John nods, a few thoughts fluttering past him. He watches the reflections of buildings pass by in the window for a few moments, before glancing back towards her. "Do you, uh, have any idea where we're headed?"

She shakes her head.

"That's a yes, right?"

Anthe–_Esme_ nods in response.

A few blocks later, the car slows to a halt, then _Esme_ nods at the door. John quietly steps outside, allowing the door behind him to fall shut quietly. The night air is brisk and freezing, and he moves to zip up his jacket, the voice of Mycroft behind him startling him from the action.

"Good evening, John."

Blankly, John wonders whether or not Mycroft has to take classes to be creepy or if it's a natural thing. He guesses on the latter. "Hello, Mycroft. Mind telling me what you've dragged me here for?"

Mycroft shifts and adjusts his posture. "You have questions." He will not look John in the eye.

"Yeah, I do." John clears his throat. "About Sherlock."

Mycroft lowers his gaze to look John in the eye; and suddenly, John feels naked, every bit of him. Now he does zip up his jacket–it's truly more of a natural reaction of defense by this point.

"He's back on the drugs," John says.

"As you have told me," Mycroft responds. John inhales, sharply, then back out again.

"I don't know why."

"I would have thought it obvious," Mycroft scoffs. "He is lonely, of course."

"He has me," John snaps.

"No, he doesn't. Mary has you. You are not anyone's possession, John. I'm certain, in fact, that it would kill him to know he _owns_ you."

John flinches. "I'm his best friend."

"As you so patiently remind us–and yet, John, his best friend died with his wife."

"Fuck you," John says bluntly. Now there truly are tears in his eyes, and he _knows_ they're there. "I have been dead since Sherlock jumped off the roof of Bart's Hospital. I watched him pitch himself off that fucking roof. I _listened_ to him convince me he was a fraud. I lived long enough to fail him. I died for him and I will die for him again. Sherlock Holmes is–"

"Not your best friend, John."

"How dare you." John's breathing through his teeth.

"Then why not move back in with him?"

John tries to find words, but cannot.

"You have been over to 221B for visits."

"Of course you'd know that."

Mycroft gives him a patient stare. "I know everything, John. Even, why, perhaps, you will not move back in with him when there is no one to come home to in your flat."

John flinches like he's about to be punched. Inwardly, of course. Outwardly, he appears calm. Strangely enough, his inward flinches are as visible as his outward flinches are. In my case, at least. Most would find it much easier to see outside wounds as opposed to inward wounds. Although, tell me, which is worse; bleeding inwardly or outwardly?

"I could." John's voice sounds weak.

"I know, John. You simply cannot."

"I want to."

"What difference does it make?" Mycroft shouts.

Mycroft Holmes does not shout in the way you think. He says it with a smile, expression calm. Nothing in him betrays this. And yet, the effect it has on John seems as if he has shouted–as if he has screamed and all the world has learned of his _failure_, his evident _failure_ to Sherlock.

Is a failure truly a failure if you are trying your best?

"My little brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?"

"I don't know."

"That he has one, John. So long as you have a heart, be aware that it has the potential to break," is what Mycroft says aloud.

What Mycroft really says is, "Brother dear has made his choice to be a detective. He could be with me, in the government, ruling the world and dancing over the corpses of London's worst. Well, of the world's worst, in fact. Of course, he is not a hero. But he wishes to become one, you must understand._ The Reichenbach Hero_. Does he feel? Of course he does. Everyone feels. He simply does not understand how he should feel."

"Right," says John.

"Do tell me, John, what did you think has been plaguing his mind all this time?"

John swallows. "Mycroft… Was Sherlock…" he squeezes his eyes shut in search for an alternative to the inevitable word that will certainly come. "Did someone hurt Sherlock when he was away?"

"Of course."

John's eyes fall shut, because he cannot bear to look at the world that has taken so much of what little they possess. When he opens them again, it is harsh as it has always been and always will be. But that's the thing about the world, John. It turns for no one. It exists because it can.

"When?" It comes out tight, strained, hard.

"For several hours in Serbia. Luckily, I was able to intervene. Of course, that is the only time I was truly aware of. You understand Sherlock went into deep cover. Even I was not wholly aware of his movements." Mycroft's expression is sour, which is either a slight improvement from his stoic impression or the most terrifying thing John's seen. Trust me, John, I've seen worse. Such as your mustache.

John should feel like swearing. He doesn't. All he can feel is _everything_. After the initial shock passes, all that clouds over him is the unbearable _guilt_–guilt that this was his fault, guilt that he hadn't asked, guilt that he'd run so far from Sherlock. Guilt that he'd blamed him for my death.

If it's any consolation, John, he blames himself, too. He does. He blames himself for everything–most of all, your unhappiness. I'm sure he sometimes feels that if you'd never met him, we'd be off somewhere in the world, eating a Chinese, a bad romance movie playing on the screen. Logically, he knows it's that sort of life that'd make you more unhappy.

Of course, you were happy with me, for a while. You were simply unhappy with yourself.

The entire ride home, John remains unhappy. He does not utter a word to Anthea–_Esme_. He moves into the flat the instant the car pulls to a stop, his feet moving of their own accord. He is certain he has never moved with such urgency before.

The door to 221B swings ajar.

"Sherlock," John gasps, leaning against the doorway, panting heavily.

Sherlock is lying on the couch, hands steepled beneath his chin. His eyes are shut tight in concentration. John's reminded of the moment he returned from his first meeting with Mycroft. And yet, there is so much more to the position that he expected to notice–it seems as though he is noticing so much more about Sherlock every time he sees him. It is as if Sherlock is trying to bring himself back to a time when he needed nothing but nicotine patches and cases and a skull as a best friend. It makes John's heart ache.

"I wasn't expecting you. Tell me, has Mycroft grown any more insufferable since I've last seen him?"

"I'm going to move in."

Sherlock sits up, giving John an odd look. "Funny, I don't seem to recall agreeing to that."

"You don't have to. I refuse to stand by and watch you destroy yourself."

Sherlock's breath hitches and he rises to stand. "What did Mycroft tell you?" he spits. There is venom in his tone.

"Nothing." John feigns ignorance, which is strange, because I'm certain that he knows what little good it will do.

"He told you–what did he tell you?" John does not answer. At least, not for a while.

"He told me about Serbia."

Sherlock exhales and seems to relax–which is a bit odd, since John's just pointed that he knows about the object of his apparent distress. "Ah. Of course."

John squints. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Of course not." Sherlock scoffs.

Don't be so obvious, Sherlock. It is clear that you are lying through your teeth.

"Right. Of course." John blinks. "It's settled, then. I'm staying." He moves to make a run for the staircase, but Sherlock immediately grabs his arm.

"John." His voice is low. He seems to be searching for something in the soldier's eyes, his own darting back and forth wildly. He looks… terrified. Christ. "Don't go to your room."

John shrugs his hand off. "Sherlock, tell me what you've got hidden up there, right now."

There is only silence on Sherlock's part as he gazes down.

John's gaze narrows. "Is it the drugs?"

"No!" Sherlock shouts.

John inhales sharply. "There. You need me here. I don't care what you say–if you won't tell me the truth, I'll head right up there and see for myself."

"John." Sherlock clutches at his arm, but John is already several steps ahead of him. Sherlock catches up to him at the door, grabbing at the handle the same time John does. John snarls in frustration, trying to shrug the man behind him off.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, just let me–"

The door falls open, the both of them stumbling blindly into the room.

John freezes.

Sherlock does, too, in his own way, shoulders tightening and face freezing up. It takes John a few moments for his eyes to adjust, and, when they do, he numbly wonders if he is hallucinating. No. There is, unmistakably, a figure sitting at his desk, hunched over, pencil scrubbing words onto a paper. Of course, that isn't the most remarkable thing about this instance. What is, is that the man sitting at the desk is

"Oh, God," he breathes.

The man looks up from the desk. There is the soft creak of wheels as the man spins around in the chair.

"Oh, hello, John," says Jim Moriarty.

* * *

AN: The response to last chapter's AN was interesting… Anyway, this won't be a Johnlock fanfic (although I definitely ship it, I doubt it'd happen in canon–in fact, I'd be mad if it became canon 'cos it'd ruin their friendship; does that make sense?).

R&R… Any guesses about what our dear friend Moriarty is doing at the end?

UPDATE: A guest asked if this is gonna be a Sheriarty fic... well, no. It's really more centric around Sherlock and John (heavy bromance but no slash).


	6. Chapter 6

_"Bet you never saw this coming."_

_xoxoxoxox_

Let's say, now, hypothetically, that you just walked into a room in a flat you used to live in. Well, of course this isn't much of a surprise, but, let's say you just walked into a room in a flat you used to live in but had every intention of returning to as a place of residence and found the murderer of your best friend and the man who strapped you to a vest covered in Semtex sitting at your desk writing equations rapidly.

Obviously, this isn't the easiest of scenarios to picture. I know without doubt that the effect it will have on John isn't… Well, John is, undoubtedly, the best man I have ever met. I say this as a woman. I say this as someone who has lived with him long enough to come to understand him. And I will say this. Sherlock is always surprising him. Always amazing him.

But the thing about John is that he's so used to Sherlock being beside him that when he wasn't there, and when I had to fill in for the high-functioning sociopath, I never really amazed him. I surprised him, but it's easy to surprise anyone in the world. Just put on a hat, buy lots of gifts, switch off the lights, wait for them to come home, then, welcome, surprise, you're home, it took so long to put this all together, I hope you're happy!

Except John Watson is never happy. This doesn't mean that he is unhappy, necessarily. Just like single doesn't mean lonely and victim doesn't mean tragedy. It just means that happiness is an emotion John Watson has learned to live without. In this sense, John Watson is not so much a soldier as he is a student. Learning to live without the essentials is the hardest lesson in the universe. Learning to remain content with nothing at all, versus living with everything in the world and being unhappy, and wondering how some people find happiness with so little.

And so John tried very, very, very hard to be happy without Sherlock. He tried to live without Sherlock. Of course, this doesn't mean he succeeded. Many people try and fail. This doesn't make them failures. Not in my opinion, at least. Trying means you are fighting.

I often imagine Sherlock and John's first meeting. John's told me all of it; every little detail. How they met, how Sherlock deduced him to bits, and how Sherlock was astounded that anyone could find his ramble incredible.

Whatever John found amazing about Sherlock at the beginning, he does not now. Not anymore. He doesn't praise Sherlock when he deduces. It's all ordinary to John. But this doesn't mean Sherlock no longer amazes John. He does. Still.

"Oh, Christ," John breathes. He stumbles backwards, back crashing into the wall. The whole world seems to freeze before his eyes: it's just a bad dream, John, if you close your eyes for long enough it'll go away.

John opens his eyes and it is still happening and Sherlock is still just… standing there and Moriarty is–Moriarty is…

"Alive," he croaks.

It takes a few moments for the initial shock to pass by, and then John's view is clouded by a haze of terror.

"You're not real–You're _not_." He inhales sharply and begins again. "I saw you. You were dead, you were–"

"Oh, John, is anyone ever truly dead?" Moriarty sighs and stands.

"Jim," Sherlock begins, but he can't seem to find his words. John's eyes are glued to the scene playing out before him.

I'll go get popcorn.

"No, fuck, no, not again," John whispers, breathing heavily. "Not… not _again_."

"John." Sherlock turns to him, wide-eyed. "I can explain."

John laughs out loud. It's a completely hysterical laugh; when he looks back up, Sherlock looks positively concerned. Moriarty– _Moriarty_ is just smiling at him. Smiling and smiling and–_how do his cheeks not hurt?_ John wonders.

Sherlock moves closer to him, so his shadow is enveloping his entire figure. "Let's discuss this in the kitchen." His voice is low.

Moriarty looks disappointed. "Oh, Sherl, surely anything you have to say to John can be heard right here."

"You _twist_ things," Sherlock snarls.

"How can I help it? I am _twisted_." He chuckles.

John stares at them, and, finally, one thought surfaces. "Are you two_ dating_?"

"What? No!" Sherlock exclaims, just as Moriarty hisses, "We're siblings, _idiot_."

John's mouth goes dry. Sherlock sends a glare in Moriarty's direction, before quickly ushering John out of the room.

"Kitchen, now," he hisses.

_"Bet you never saw this coming."_

_xoxoxoxox_

"Jim initially broadcast the image of himself once he had been notified I was sent to exile. Of course, I did tell you and Mary that I projected the image, which would result in my return to London afterwards."

"It was Moriarty." John's not quite sure what to think. "All along, it was Moriarty… Christ." His head falls into his hands.

Sherlock tipped tea into a cup and pushed it towards John. He cleared his throat. "Jim had recently met up with me, using the threat of Mary's old position as an assassin as blackmail. I provided him with a place out of the watch of Mycroft in the homeless network, and he assisted me in transferring information. After Mary's…" Sherlock's words come to a halt. "…he moved into 221B with me once it was clear you would not return."

John bites down on the inside of his mouth. "Mind, uh, telling me what… mm…" John shakes his head, "he said about you being _siblings_?"

Sherlock winces. "It came up, eventually. I'd been aware of Magnussen's presence for a while… Jim was the one who found out."

A lump develops in John's throat. "How?"

Sherlock averts his gaze, staring into the bottom of his teacup. "Sherrinford Holmes," he whispers.

"Sorry?"

"That was the name Jim was originally given. Sherrinford Holmes, brother of Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes."

"Mycroft knew about him?"

"Of course he did. He has known all this time. Apparently… Apparently Mummy decided two children was enough. I was…too young to recall such events. All I have been able to pull from Jim was the fact that he was sent to live in the care of an elderly couple in Sussex."

"_Sussex_?"

Sherlock smiles without humor. "They kept bees."

John pressed his fingers to his temples. Sherlock just kept on talking and talking and talking and… none of it made sense. He didn't want it to make sense. He wanted it to be a lie. He wanted nothing more than Sherlock William Scott Holmes to be lying to him right now.

_"You see, John, but you do not observe."_

_"What's the difference between seeing and observing?"_

_"You've seen the staircase leading up to 221B."_

_"Yes, many times."_

_"Then tell me, how many steps are there?"_

_"I don't know."_

_"Precisely, John. You see things but you do not take in the information. You have absolutely no idea how many steps lead up to our flat, but I know that there are exactly 17."_

John inhales, sharply. "I…" His mouth falls closed. "I don't know what to say."

"Then do not speak," Sherlock tells him, bristling.

"Hang on a sec. Why is he still here?" John demanded.

"I do not wish to kill my own brother," Sherlock says simply.

John sighs, carding his fingers through his hair. "That's not what I meant. But he doesn't have to be _here_, Sherlock. Why not tell Mycroft? I'm sure he'd be–"

"Horrified to realize that Moriarty was alive and, in fact, our brother."

"I thought he knew–"

"He knew that we had another sibling present. Even so, it is highly unlikely he was able to keep tabs on Jim after his disappearance from the house he was raised in." Sherlock places his hands on the table, fingers exploring the wood. He's distracted. I think John sees it. He must, if I can.

His voice lowers a fraction. "Even so, the thought of him leaving is unbearable. I have grown… accustomed to his presence."

His voice is so soft, and so quiet, and so ashamed, and it's finally then that John realizes that Sherlock is… speaking to him. Admitting to him something he, under any normal circumstances, would not. But this is not a normal circumstance and John realizes this, and John also realizes that keeping secrets hidden for long enough has the capability to drive one insane. Sherlock is a man of many secrets–it is no wonder why he behaves the way he does around others, shutting them out behind massive walls.

John sighs. "Sherlock, he's a serial killer."

He winces. "I know that, I know Jim…" his voice trails off. "I know he isn't a good man, John. But he has been there when no one else was."

"I'm always here," John says, firmly.

Sherlock manages a forced half-smile. "You were not, John. You were with Mary. And I believe that you still are."


End file.
